


Come Adore on Bended Knee (and Other Ways to Make an Angel Rejoice)

by TheOldAquarian



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Christmas Carols, Christmas Eve, Christmas Smut, Crowley's Tongue (Good Omens), Drinking, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Smut and Fluff and Humor, did you know when angels get frisky it causes snowstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOldAquarian/pseuds/TheOldAquarian
Summary: "Well, we waited six thousand years for a kiss, surely we can wait at least one more night before we, you know." Crowley made an ambiguously descriptive but inarguably obscene gesture between the two of them."Of course we can," said Aziraphale. "We're not animals. We'll just carry on our evening as it was before all those delightful kisses happened. I don't think it should be too hard to find other things to talk about."There was a pause in which the tea kettle whistled, as if in disbelief.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 591





	1. Chapter 1

On Christmas Eve, London was damp, and cold, and softly lit. Evening had just seated itself and drawn a blanket over its twilit knees. It was that particular hour after the streets were emptied and before party hosts began to wonder about cutting certain relatives off the eggnog. _White Christmas_ played, crooning and endless, from a supermarket’s speakers, in the face of a Christmas which was decidedly grey.

"It's the mo-ost won-der-ful time of the year!" Crowley sang as he burst into A.Z. Fell and Co. with a box full of brandy-filled chocolates and wet, dirty shoes.

"Hush, you devil," Aziraphale said, frantically waving him inside. "It's most _dangerous_ time of the year. People are out and about, looking in shop windows. They're _purchasing things_."

“What? You’re paranoid, everyone is inside getting pissed and we’re _behind_ , angel,” Crowley said, as he kicked off his boots in the entryway. "Oh, and sorry about tracking in a mess"

"Goodness, don't be," Aziraphale said. "The bookshop was looking positively _inviting_."

"It always looks inviting to me." It came out softer than he'd meant it to, and he hastily added, "but I've got taste that's positively infernal."

“Well,” Aziraphale said—and it must have been the cold that pinked his face—“I do think I did a nice job with the lights. I on'y hope they don't look too friendly from out there."

"Jesus Christ, angel," Crowley said, shaking his head.

"Oh! That reminds me, I’ve got to deliver something.” Aziraphale reached down to an end table, drew out a card with _Happy Birthday_ on the front, and signed with an elegant pen. There was a flash of golden light and a tone like an especially euphonious doorbell, and the card disappeared.

“They still let me use the post,” Aziraphale said, shrugging.

Inside the bookshop, a fire danced in a grate that hadn’t existed on December 23rd, merrily popping and sparking. Aziraphale had placed his drabbest books in the display windows, but conceded to the season and added strings of fairy lights around the interior. Pleasant smells wafted: vanilla and butter and the sorts of spices that complement dark rum. (Very little had changed since the non-occurrence of Armageddon, but Crowley, who had taken to visitng more often than not, had insisted on Aziraphale ventilating the shop and clearing the centuries of mildew.) A very old radio was playing “In the Bleak Midwinter” and scrabbling with static just enough to be hopelessly charming.

“Let’s uncork something, angel, before I die from envy of everyone around us who’s properly drunk right now.”

Aziraphale sighed in mock admonishment, but snapped his fingers to obtain two wine glasses and handed one to Crowley, who brushed Aziraphale’s hand very slightly as he accepted.

“You know,” Aziraphale began, “If you’d asked me eleven-odd years ago what I thought I’d be doing on this Christmas, I would never have guessed I’d be spending it with the Antichrist and his loving family. Though I suppose there’s a part of me that’s glad I don’t have to go to Heaven’s office party.”

Adam’s mother and father had invited them to Tadfield, along with several of the others who had been at the airbase on that less-fateful-than-expected day. Crowley and Aziraphale were both dreading it, but they’d decided it was best to be on Christmas-party terms with Adam, just in case the world should get any ideas about going belly-up.

“Reminds me, I got a note from Hell today,” Crowley said, pulling a greasy post-it out of his pocket. 

“Hell sends Christmas cards?”

“No, though it’s a wonderful season for Below, you wouldn’t believe how easily people snap this time of year. For example, if, er, someone made all the Christmas cards in every shop in a five-mile-radius disappear, people would lose it.”

“Speaking hypothetically.”

“Course. Anyway, the note was to let me know they burned all the stuff I left at my desk. Shame, I did fancy that tie clip.” Crowley stopped pacing and sat down, although it looked less like sitting and more like liquefying across the sofa.

“Which one?” Aziraphale asked. He imagined Crowley putting on a tie before some important infernal meeting, fingers working carefully at the knot. He was mere sips into his wine, but Aziraphale felt suddenly dizzy. 

“It’s the one with the snake on it.”

“I’d never have guessed,” Aziraphale deadpanned.

Crowley grinned and flopped even more erratically upon the sofa, wine glass held aloft.

“How does it feel to be spending Christmas with a demon, angel?”

Aziraphale considered while he unlaced his shoes one-handed, bracing his knee against the plush armchair.

“You know, for someone who’s a professional scourge upon humanity, you make an awfully enjoyable houseguest.”

“Oh, enjoyable, am I?” Crowley asked, tilting his head and savoring the view of Aziraphale’s flush.

“Well, in a manner of speaking. You _do_ have a tendency to hog the furniture.”

“I only do it because you never sit with me,” Crowley accused from his languid sprawl. “But you’re welcome to.”

In the firelight Crowley’s eyes shimmered like the missing pieces of a dragon’s hoard. They seemed to be issuing all sorts of invitations. _Aren’t you lonely, aren’t you cold? Come in, I’ll take care of you, come inside._

Well, it would be terribly rude to dawdle upon an RSVP.

“Move over, then,” Aziraphale said, depositing himself at one end of the couch as Crowley swung a leg around to make room. They did not touch. 

“Let’s open these, shall we, angel?” With a deft hand Crowley slipped the scarlet ribbon off the box of brandy-filled chocolates. Aziraphale made a little noise of delight that Crowley could have listened to on loop until all the world’s diamonds had regressed into graphite.

“I expected them to be stronger,” Aziraphale confessed after biting into one. 

“Nah, then you can’t eat the whole box."

He studied Aziraphale as they made their way through the chocolates. Crowley wasn’t sure if it was his own imagination, which tended to run feverish when it lingered on angelic matters, but he thought Aziraphale was licking his fingers a good deal more than the smudges on them required. For Hell’s sake, did he need to put his finger in his mouth all the way up to where it met his palm?

Aziraphale wasn’t all that dissimilar to the chocolates, Crowley mused. Sweet on the outside, but possessed of something intoxicating and a little bit sinful at the center. 

And both of them were things Crowley wanted very badly to put in his mouth.

“You’ve got a little chocolate there,” Aziraphale said, indicating the corner of his lips. Crowley touched the wrong corner on purpose.

“Better?”

“No, not—it’s the other—here, let me.” And Aziraphale pressed the corner of Crowley’s mouth with his thumb, soft and gentle.

It was quiet for a moment. The scratchy radio began to play _O Holy Night._

"I'm always surprised they air this on the radio unedited," Crowley said.

"What do you mean?" 

"Well there's that line in there that's pretty off-colour."

"No, what on earth are you talking about?" Aziraphale leaned back on the pillow, trying to ready himself for anything.

" _You_ know," Crowley said. "The one about fellating an angel." 

Aziraphale was not ready for that. He could not have looked more shocked if he had been actually electrocuted.

" _I beg your pardon?_ "

"You know, 'fall on your knees, oh hear the angel voices.' Pretty racy stuff."

A few seconds passed. Aziraphale stared at Crowley, then broke out in riotous peals of laughter.

“It occurs to me now,” Crowley said slowly, “that when the other demons told me that’s what it meant that it may have been a joke at my expense.”

“Oh you wonderful _idiot_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale said, wiping the streaming mirth overflowing from his eyes.

“In my defense,” Crowley said, crossing his arms but beginning to smile, “everyone in Hell has really good poker faces.”

As Aziraphale’s laughter subsided, something crackled in the bookshop.

Perhaps it was a log in the fireplace.

Perhaps the echo of a Christmas cracker opening upstairs.

Or perhaps it was the awareness between Crowley and Aziraphale that they were sitting very, very close.

Crowley swallowed. "I think I'll have a bit more Merlot," he said, reaching for the bottle.

"Hm," said Aziraphale, watching Crowley's winestained lips. "I think I will too." He leaned forward and kissed Crowley on the mouth.

It’s an odd feeling, to suddenly get something you’ve wanted for six thousand years. Crowley experienced it as a kind of localized euphoria across the front of his face, and was almost too stunned to kiss back. (He gave it his best and most enthusiastic try anyway.)

Aziraphale had endured many centuries of not-kissing Crowley, and when he finally snapped he felt all of them screaming at him to clutch closer, to open his mouth wider, to explore a little deeper. He could feel Crowley’s fingers in his hair and he gave a soft whine as he pressed Crowley flush to his chest.

 _O ni-ight divine_ , the radio played as the angel and the demon on the sofa squirmed and stroked and shifted.

After two more songs, Crowley pulled away.

“Angel, I’m—I’m really not complaining, but why now?”

“We’re free, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered. He touched the side of Crowley’s face. “Also, if I may say, you look _devilishly_ handsome by firelight.”

Crowley made the closest thing to a cooing sound that a demon can utter, and the two of them were kissing again, sweet and frantic and without a need to pause for air. Aziraphale thought he could feel the room sway when Crowley bit down on his lip and then soothed the bite with a flicker of his forked tongue. 

They fell forward, Aziraphale flattening Crowley into the sofa. He felt Crowley’s legs wind around his back like a constrictor preparing for a slow and long-awaited devouring. Revelling in the friction and hungry for more, Aziraphale tried to pull Crowley’s sweater off with one hand while the other fumbled with his own bow tie. Crowley used the opportunity to press wet, gnawing kisses into the sides of Aziraphale’s neck.

There was a soft _thwump_ from outside and the ancient radio gave a buzz followed by a screech. Turning around from where he was slotted between Crowley’s legs, Aziraphale could see nothing out the window but an expanse of pure, glittering white.

The radio began to babble.

_Now according to a correspondent from the Met Office we’ve got our own little bit of magic on Christmas Eve as multiple reports from London of sudden, heavy snowfall are being verified despite no indication in the forecast. Do you reckon it’s a Christmas miracle, Shannon?_

_Yes, Robert, it really looks as though London has been kissed by angels..._

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Aziraphale whispered.

“ _Please_ , yes,” Crowley moaned, yellow eyes glazed with lust. “Would you, erm, like to go first, or do you want me to—?”

“No not that—I mean yes, but—look out the window!”

They looked. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Crowley said.

“Quite.”

From the corner, the radio resumed its crackling carols. 

_The lights are turned way down low, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow._


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m sure there’s some explanation for this.” Aziraphale paced back and forth in front of the fireplace and twisted the ring on his pinky.

The snow had stopped falling. The angel and the demon had stopped snogging.

"Maybe it was a coincidence," Crowley offered. He was curled into a tight ball on the sofa, watching Aziraphale pace with soft, desperate eyes. Aziraphale had managed to unknot his bowtie mid-snog before the discovery of the snowstorm, and his exposed, unavailable neck was causing Crowley rather acute distress. "We could pick up where we left off. If my memory’s not faulty, you had your tongue halfway down my throat and I'd just grabbed a lovely handful of angelic arse...”

"Stop it, Crowley, that’s not helping!” Aziraphale wheeled around on slippered feet. “Look, I want so much to believe it’s a coincidence.” He gazed at Crowley with the kind of salivating hunger he normally reserved for things that were coated in bechamel sauce or drizzled in balsamic reduction. "But frankly, I've had enough of believing that whatever’s convenient is true to last me an eternal lifetime."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," Crowley said, uncurling a little. "I'm impressed, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale gave a nervous laugh and wrenched the golden ring around his finger for the seventh time that minute. "Well, it only took the end of the world, after all. And it, ah, seems to be the night for seeing to matters that should have been seen to thousands of years ago.”

Crowley perked up at the mention of “seeing to."

“Please don’t lick your lips again, or I won't be able to concentrate on solving our problem," Aziraphale pleaded.

"Sorry," Crowley said, having rarely felt less sorry in his long and not especially apologetic life.

Aziraphale paced to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and when he returned he came to an abrupt halt in front of a scrap of dangling tinsel.

“Oh no, surely it couldn’t be,” he said in an undertone.

“What?”

“There’s an old rumor--well, more like a saying--among the Upstairs Office, that when angels embrace on Christmas Eve, Heaven itself blesses the world with snow.”

“Sounds like the kind of trite rubbish people get cross-stitched on throw pillows for dogs, but go on.”

“Well, you see, it  _ would _ be just another saying, but much of Heaven is convinced it’s true, and you know what happens when angels start believing in things.”

Crowley was all slit-eyed suspicion. “Why does Heaven believe that?”

Aziraphale bit his lip, then said “Do you remember the dreadful winter of 1683? I’m afraid that year Heaven’s Christmas Eve company party got a bit...rambunctious, one could say.”

“ _ Could _ one now?” Crowley leaned all the way over the arm of the sofa, chin between his upturned palms.

“Yes, well, the night started off with some of the lower regiments of angels partaking in a great deal of wine and playing Who Would You Make an Effort For.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open in disbelief and delight.

“And it continued with many of those same angels exploring the more, ah, practical aspects of divine love in the celestial supply closets.”

“Weren’t  _ you _ in one of the lower regiments?”

“Indeed I was,” Aziraphale said, with a haughty elevation of his nose. “Anyway, notions of cause and effect were had, and ever since then, it, well, seems to have held true. It’s just that angels don’t usually get very cuddly without imbibing frightening amounts of less-than-holy spirits.”

“So you have...before, then?”

The haughtiness in Aziraphale’s expression faded, and something soft and a bit fragile took its place.

“Well, I don’t know  _ precisely _ what you’re asking about, my dear, but in any case the answer is probably yes.” He looked down, then up. “Have you?”

Crowley barked a laugh. “You remember that time I came to your bookshop and babbled at you about how the world was all connected and how the future tasted like blueberries?”

“I do,” Aziraphale frowned. “I was terribly worried about you, and, if I may say, also somewhat put out that you ate my last two tins of biscuits in three minutes flat and accidentally hit me in the head with a glowstick.”

“Right, well, I was high out of my mind, and I’d just come back from the 6,000 year anniversary of Lucifer’s accession in Hell, which is traditionally celebrated every 500 years with an all-staff orgy. Let me tell you, it’s not nearly as nearly as sexy as it looks in the Hieronymous Bosch triptychs.”

“Is that really sexy?” Aziraphale wanted to ask, but he only broke into revolted giggles.

Crowley coughed a little as if to expel his embarrassment. “So, then, does that miracle only apply to the  _ embrace _ of angels? I’m sure we can work out some alternative configurations-”

“The, er, available evidence would seem to indicate that it’s ‘embrace’ broadly defined.”

“But they only believe it happens on Christmas Eve?”

“I think so. We should be fine tomorrow.”

"World’s best Christmas present," Crowley said, dragging himself into a slightly less lurid sprawl. "Well, we waited six thousand years for a kiss, sure we can wait at least one more night before we..." he made an ambiguously descriptive but inarguably obscene gesture between the two of them.

"Of course we can," said Aziraphale, and sat down on the sofa. "We're not  _ animals.  _ We'll just, just carry on our evening as it was before all those delightful kisses happened. I don't think it should be too hard to find other things to talk about."

There was a pause in which the tea kettle whistled, as if in disbelief.

Aziraphale and Crowley stared at each other, and did not relieve the boiling kettle or say anything for an interminable minute.

"Er, right," Crowley said. "Just out of curiosity, how long have you wanted to"-that gesture again-"with me?"

Aziraphale folded his hands at the center of his thighs with the nervous modesty of a worshipper in church drawing a shawl around bare shoulders.

"Oh you'll think it frightfully embarrassing, it was so long ago," Aziraphale said.

Crowley’s eyes were hard and glassy as marbles. "Try me."

"Well, I don't when it all  _ really _ began, but I realized I couldn't possibly live without you when you asked me for the Holy Water," Aziraphale said.

Crowley attempted to reply to this, but something in his throat resisted and the result was devoid of vowels and unintelligible.

"I think it took until the Blitz to realize you felt the same way," Aziraphale. "But as for when I first became interested in sh-snogging you senseless, ah, it was that time in Delphi when we got into a fight about influencing an Oracle."

He swallowed heavily, as Crowley watched a newly-sucked bruise rise and fall across his throat.

"The thought crossed my mind that a really horrible demon might want to have his way with me, and for a moment I was quite sad that you were obviously not that sort of demon at all." Aziraphale's face, already flushed, was drawing near to matching the poinsettias on the desk.

"You  _ won  _ that fight by a truly embarrassing margin." Crowley was unable to stop himself from grinning idiotically. "How on earth was I supposed to ravish you when you had me in the angelic equivalent of handcuffs and a straitjacket?"

"I didn't say it was remotely realistic," Aziraphale rejoined. Then, quieter, "also you made, er, a rather appealing sight."

Crowley snorted with joy. "Right pervert of an angel you are."

The glare that Aziraphale gave Crowley would have been much more potent if it hadn't stopped to rake itself over Crowley's body a few times before sheepishly making its way up to his eyes. "Well when did it start for you, then?"

Crowley stared at his sunglasses on the end table as he said, "Eden."

" _ Eden? _ You wanted to have sex with me in the same damn  _ pay period _ as the beginning of the world?" Aziraphale's shock turned to smile. "You know, I'm mildly horrified, but horribly flattered."

"No not that.” He closed his eyes. “I wanted...I fell in... _ fuck _ ." Crowley lifted his firelit eyes to Aziraphale's, unable to continue.

"Oh  _ Crowley, _ " Aziraphale said, and pulled him into a tight embrace. "My dear, I love you too."

Crowley made a noise that was definitely not a ragged breath inhaled over the sharp edges of a stifled sob.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley's hair, and definitely did not begin to cry into Crowley's shoulder. "I am sorry it took so long." He paused. "Though I confess I don't feel too terribly bad about not swan diving into romantic feelings when we met on the Gates."

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale and nestled into the crook of his neck. A minute passed as snow began to fall again in earnest and the tea kettle gave up entirely on capturing the attention of the angel and demon. "Just to set the record straight,” Crowley nuzzled into the base of Aziraphale’s throat. “I didn’t really think about having sex with you until at least week three after the beginning of the world."

"You lustful little devil," Aziraphale said with utmost fondness, and they were pressed so close they barely had to shift at all to begin kissing again.

Six thousand years is a long time to hold in a secret, and in the heady aftermath of its revelation Aziraphale and Crowley found it a relief to reassure each other in silence, with the warm sweep of tongue against tongue.

It was even more of a relief when Aziraphale pulled off Crowley’s sweater and Crowley scrabbled to remove Aziraphale’s jacket, waistcoat (“Do mind the velvet buttonholes, dear,” Aziraphale had whispered into his neck between kisses), and several shirts.

Finally, Crowley pulled back.

“We’re doing that snow thing again.”

“Yes, of course, we should stop,” Aziraphale said, as if emerging from a reverie he wasn’t sure had been conducted while asleep or awake. “I suppose it would be very rude to snow in all of London.”

“Right.”

“Definitely.”

The flakes stopped falling as they retreated to separate sofa cushions. Aziraphale crossed his legs. Crowley hugged his knees to his bare chest.

“You know,” Crowley said slowly. “We could try to test the limits a bit. See if there aren’t any pleasant exceptions to the rule.” He said ‘exceptions’ with a tremendous amount of hisses and an even greater number of implications.

“Like what?” Aziraphale asked, legs uncrossing.

Crowley smirked at the movement and began to prowl across the couch on his hands and knees. 

“Like this,” he said, running a long, thin finger up one of Aziraphale’s thighs and across the ridge forming at the center of his trousers.

It is not necessary for angels to take deep, shuddering breaths, no matter how they are provoked, but when the provocation is being teased by an ardent demon, it understandably happens.

No snowflakes appeared at the window, and the wind outside was distinctly not howling.

"See? No harm done,” Crowley said, dragging his finger back down, slow as he dared. "We’re barely touching at all."

“Yes, it’s awful.” Aziraphale wanted to cry out and demand the rest of Crowley's hand, but he only scooted forward a little and parted his legs a half-inch wider, a silent, urgent plea.

"Do you remember when we slept in the same bed, in that disgusting rotted inn up in Cornwall?" Crowley asked, eyes alight and smile as wicked as any sinner in Hell. "I wanted to do this then, so badly. You were so warm, and so soft, and more inviting than was probably  _ virtuous _ ." The end of the last word dissolved in another hiss.

Aziraphale glanced down at Crowley's hand between his legs and bit his lip.

"I seem to recall some of me was no softer then than it is now," he admitted. He drew his hand through Crowley's hair, parting the strands of red.

Crowley groaned and pressed the flat palm of his hand against Aziraphale with more pressure.

"Fuck, that would have been lovely. There was a rainstorm, right?"

"Yes, the roof leaked," Aziraphale supplied, eyes closed and head tilted back into the cushions.

Crowley took a deep, courageous breath.

"I've always wanted you to have me in a rainstorm. Your fault for sheltering me with your wing during Rainstorm Number One."

Aziraphale opened one eye. "Well then. I hardly knew at the time I'd just prefigured the invention of both the umbrella and the sexual fantasy."

Crowley started to unzip Aziraphale's trousers. "I think I'd take a snowstorm too."

“Crowley,” Aziraphale started.

“Yeah, fine, you’re right, we should go to Adam’s Christmas party tomorrow and not make your coworkers’ perverted prophecies come true.” He started rezipping.

Aziraphale grabbed both of Crowley’s wrists. “I mean, I suppose we could miracle all the snow away,” he said in a rush.

“What?” Crowley said. He was staring at Aziraphale’s hands on his wrists with an expression of rapture.   


“We’d have to get up horribly early to do it before people start travelling, and something tells me you’ll want to wake up even less than usual, and it’ll be a dreadful chore on Christmas morning, but perhaps it might be worth it?”

Crowley reached his hand forward again, despite Aziraphale’s grip. “You know, for an angel you’re far too good at temptation. Going to put demons out of a job if you keep up like that.”

Aziraphale smiled, kissed Crowley once on the lips, and threw him backwards onto the sofa.

“Well lucky for me there is  _ one _ demon I know will give in,” he said, and sank down off the cushions until he was sitting on the floor between Crowley’s legs. 

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked, as Aziraphale unbuttoned his jeans and attempted to tug them off.

“I’m unbuttoning your jeans and attempting to tug them off,” Aziraphale said. “So that I can suck your cock.”

He said this in the kind of voice he used for requesting additional sugar cubes while drinking tea with outstretched pinkies. Crowley thought he might black out.

“How do you even get  _ in _ these?” Aziraphale asked. “Do you slither inside and then turn human-shaped?”

“No, but that’s a brilliant idea,” Crowley said, flopping back and extracting himself from the tight denim.

Aziraphale ran his hands up and down Crowley’s legs, provoking shivers. He then drew forth a yelp, a whimper, and a hand held tight in his hair in rapid succession as he began a line of sucking kisses along the inside of Crowley’s thigh.

Snow began to whirl on the other side of the windowpanes, gusting and glittering.

Aziraphale had reached a juncture covered in close-cropped red curls, and licked a long stripe up Crowley’s cock to the tip, never breaking eye contact.

“Is that all right, my dear?”

“Hnkghnh,” Crowley responded, but he managed to nod.

Aziraphale smiled and swallowed down.

Crowley tried to reconcile the images of his own insistent erection and Aziraphale’s reverent face and hollowed cheeks, but it was like looking at a bizarre collage, at images spliced together by some dirty-minded absurdist. One picture did not seem to fit with the other, and he would have doubted the actuality but for the hot, wonderful suction that was all too real.

It was better than sunlight on scaled skin, better than crawling into a hot bath on a cold night, better than flying. It felt like saving the world, which was not something Crowley had ever anticipated he would experience, but recent events made him feel qualified to make the comparison. 

Crowley had imagined this about twelve thousand times since the world began, and he usually imagined that he would say something while Aziraphale was nestled between his thighs. He imagined crooning sweet obscenities and whispering all kinds of vile, glorious, exciting things. There was so much he wanted to say, like “Your mouth feels better than creating the stars,” and “I think about this every time I see you eat something longer than it is wide,” and “gosh, this is so much less neck strain when you do it.” But he found himself rather incapable of words, and almost beyond the reach of syllabes.

“Dear, do try to stop that wiggling,” Aziraphale said, taking a brief break to slick and squeeze Crowley with his hand.

_ I can’t help it, I’m a fucking snake, _ Crowley wanted to say. “Fucking...snake,” he managed to gasp, writhing on the upholstery under Aziraphale’s fist.

“Oh fine, yes, I’ve thought about it,” Aziraphale said with a bit of tartness, “but I really think I’d prefer you remain human for tonight.”

“What? No, didn’t mean-- _ really _ ?”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, and changed the subject by taking the length of Crowley back into his mouth and making a fluttering motion with his tongue that had Crowley’s toes curling and his legs wrapping around Aziraphale’s neck.

“Angel, I’m, I’m-”

Aziraphale tipped forward until his nose was squashed flat against Crowley’s body, and Crowley came. 

If it was not quite as spectacular as the creation of a nebula, it nonetheless resulted in a large amount of cloudy whiteness where there was none before. Aziraphale swallowed and drew back, placing one last wet kiss on the head as Crowley melted back into the sofa.

"I'll just be here if you need me anytime before the world turns into a puddle of entropic goo," said Crowley, who appeared to be so boneless he looked not unlike a post-apocalyptic puddle of goo himself.

Aziraphale's face was even smugger than the one he wore when he located a spelling mistake on a Scrabble board.

"Nonsense dear, I'm sure you'll be restored to your usual self in a jiffy.”

"Angel, only you could use the phrase 'in a jiffy' about thirty seconds after delivering the most sinful sucking-off of the century."

"I highly doubt that. It's a useful expression."

"Fine," Crowley conceded. "But you're the only one who could make it sound sexy." 

"Why that's very kind of you," Aziraphale said.

Crowley made a face like he’d touched something too hot and his cock twitched.

“Careful with that, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, what, with calling you kind? You’re positively a sweetheart.”

Crowley whined, and sat up as though pulled by an external force.

Aziraphale blinked at him with calculated innocence.

“You have got to know by now what this does to me,” Crowley said.

“Well, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and standing up, “If you don’t want me to call you nice you’d better be very naughty indeed.”

“Think I can do that,” Crowley whispered, kneeling in front of Aziraphale and peeling the tweed off his legs. Aziraphale grabbed a handful of his hair.

“Just like the song says,” Crowley said, “We’ll see if I can hear the angel voices.”

“The song says nothing of the  _ ohh,”  _ Aziraphale breathed as Crowley took his cock in his mouth up to the hilt.

Of all the exquisitely painful torments dreamed up in Hell, Aziraphale thought, none could be as painful as what he’d endured over the millennia watching Crowley showing off with his tongue. Where very talented humans could tie cherry stems into knots, Crowley could fold origami, at least if supplied with sufficiently waterproof paper. 

He could make loop-de-loops and twists and graceful arabesques. Once and once only, Aziraphale had watched Crowley eat a popsicle, and the experience had made him feel like he needed to plunge himself in the Arctic Sea just to have any hope of remaining below the temperature of the sun.

All of Crowley’s alarming skills were being rapidly and lovingly bestowed upon Aziraphale’s overwhelmed erection. Aziraphale was genuinely unsure whether he was hearing choirs of angels because he was about to discorporate from pleasure or because the old radio was still playing Christmas carols.

“Crowley, I need something to--let me touch you too,” Aziraphale stammered.

There was a noise like a drain as Crowley drew back.

“You  _ are _ touching me, angel, I’ve got your blessed cock hitting the back of my--”

“No, let’s, er, would you like to together? I can’t hold on like this, but if I have something else to occupy me...”

“Yes, please, let’s go to your bed,” Crowley said, digging his nails into Aziraphale’s ample buttocks.

“I haven’t got a bed.”

“Are you serious? When we clear out the snow, I’m buying you all the memory foam that will fit in your flat, and we’re not leaving for a week.”

“Yes dear, that sounds lovely, but for now we’ve only got this sofa and the floor, and I don’t think we can lie sideways on the sofa.”

Crowley sighed. “Good thing you’ve got carpeting.”

“Mind you don’t lie on the old portal to Heaven. I haven’t used it in months but I imagine it’s blessed enough to hurt you.”

Crowley shrugged. “Could be interesting.”

They settled on the threadbare carpet next to the fireplace. As the radio crackled and  _ Hark! The Herald Angel Sings _ warbled into the room, Aziraphale and Crowley kissed and licked and sucked until the choirs of angels sang in exultation and London was covered in two meters of snow.

***

“No matter how awful it is clearing away all that snow, and it will likely be quite unpleasant, I think this was worth it,” Aziraphale said.

They were cuddled together on the sofa under an old tartan blanket that had never been stylish. Crowley had pouted when Aziraphale arranged to be the little spoon, but stopped complaining once he was actually nestled into Aziraphale’s backside and the charms of larger spoondom were made apparent.

“Are you going to start calling me pet names?” Crowley asked, tracing a finger along the inside of Aziraphale’s arm.

“I already call you ‘dear.’” Aziraphale shuddered a little at Crowley’s touch and continued his backwards wiggling.

“You call your tea cozy ‘dear,’” Crowley complained.

“I’m hardly in the habit of conversing with my kettle, cozy or no.”

“The point stands.”

Aziraphale gave a brief, pondering squirm. “Perhaps I shall call you ‘darling.’ Or I can continue my usual terms of endearment and call you a ‘foul fiend’ and a ‘blighted serpent.’”

“I knew all along,” Crowley said, pausing his kisses at the back of Aziraphale’s neck, “that ‘foul fiend’ translated from the original Stubborn Angel meant ‘my very clever and much-adored demon lover I’d like to shag into oblivion.’”

“That sounds like a wonderful plan for tomorrow night, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this fic! I'm [theoldaquarian](https://theoldaquarian.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. If you enjoyed this, check out [Anthony J. Crowley, Retired Demon and Airbnb Superhost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21723022) for more silliness.


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